Rachel Summers: Daily Globe Reporter
by KyronP
Summary: In a much simpler Marvel Universe, Rachel Summers, mutant daughter of X-Men Cyclops and Marvel Girl, just wants a normal life. Abandoning any chance of joining the X-Men and following in her parents' footsteps, Rachel flees to New York and works for The Daily Globe, rival to The Daily Bugle. But she will soon get a wake up call: with great power, comes great responsibility!
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

"Rachel Summers, Daily Globe."

Twenty-five-year-old Rachel Summers twirled her pen around her long, well-manicured fingers and suppressed a yawn, the receiver of her phone pressed against her ear. It was a half hour before five but she was already over work. She was supposed to be proofreading and editing this article that had been dumped on top of her desk—it was a report on a thwarted bank robbery—but it had been the most frustrating thing she'd encountered in weeks. She hated editing this guy's stuff because he had obviously never learnt subject-verb agreement but she was a copy editor so she had no choice: she had to earn the middle bucks.

She wished she could leave but she couldn't, of course. Sometimes she questioned the ethics of using her telepathy to let people _think _that she had been there all afternoon. That way she could sneak out and go home and watch _Scandal_ or something mindless like _The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills_.

But she could almost see her father scowling at her in her mind's eye for even having that idea.

"Hi, Miss Summers," said a chipper woman on the other end of the phone. "This is Gillian Rosenthal, Mr. Carter Clayton's assistant. He's asked me to contact you and ask if you can come up to his office immediately."

"Me?" yelped Rachel, her pen slipping out of her grasp and almost falling to the brown-carpeted floor. Instinctively, Rachel used her telekinesis to pull the pen back up to her and she closed her eyes, wanting to smack her head. She hoped no one had seen that. That was a rookie mistake! She didn't want to out herself as a mutant.

"You are Miss Rachel Summers, copy editor in the Copy Editing Department, right?" said Gillian.

"Yeeeees," said Rachel, drawing it out, surprised.

"Well, Mr. Clayton would like you to come up here immediately, if not sooner," said Gillian. "See you in a few minutes."

They hung up.

Rachel lifted herself up from her little cubicle and looked around the busy room full of other copy editors for a big-shot newspaper like the _Daily Globe_. She picked up her handbag from the battered, wooden table and quickly rushed to the nearest ladies' room and took a deep breath as she looked at herself in the mirror.

Her shoulder-length, wine-colored hair was in a disheveled mess and her make-up was seriously undone. So she wasted no time in pulling out a brush and her make-up case and fixing all of that up. The dress she was wearing—a grey, tweed number that she'd gotten in Forever 21 and had owned for years—had a jewel neckline and capped sleeves and cut just a few inches above her knees. It was a little tight but it accentuated her curvaceous figure. And she was wearing sky-high, black Louboutins that she'd splurged on last Christmas when she'd gotten some money from her Grandpa Grey instead of saving it.

Being summoned by Carter Clayton was something of a big deal. His mother, K.J. Clayton, was the owner of the whole paper and he was the Lifestyle Editor for the whole newspaper, which Rachel had always found strange. If his mom owned the whole paper, in fact a publishing empire called Clayton Publishing, why would he be content just working at one of the publications? Shouldn't he be running the whole company?

That's what she would do. But she wasn't born to wealth and privilege like he undoubtedly had been.

Deciding that there was nothing more that she could do, Rachel straightened her back, put her little bag on her shoulder and confidently strode out of the ladies' room and to the elevator bank. As usual, the elevator that opened before her was full of endless reporters on cell phones with contacts and ad men from the marketing department overcharging businesses. But all Rachel could do was calm her beating heart.

When the doors finally opened on the floor of the Lifestyle Department, the shift was almost unnerving. The Editing Department was on the first floor of the building and was in the worst kind of condition. The furniture was old and worn. There was a consistent stench that hovered over the entire department because the carpet hadn't been properly cleaned in God knew how long. Lethargy and human suffering ran rampant.

But the Lifestyle Department was the closest Rachel had ever been to heaven: it was completely white. There were white tiles on the floor, everybody's desks were neat and had modern MACs on them—unlike the aged Dells she and the rest of the Editing Department had—and everybody just looked…happier. They were all better dressed, they were thinner. Natural light streamed into the entire floor, almost blinding her it was so beautiful.

"Hi," said a perky, buxom blonde who was sitting behind a sleek, glass desk just outside the elevator. "Can I help you?"

"Hi," said Rachel, trying to mimic the girl's joviality. "I'm Rachel Summers."

"Oh, Gillian told me to expect you," said the girl, rising from her seat. She pointed to another perky, beautiful blonde sitting behind her own glass desk, busily typing. "That's Gillian over there. Have a good day. Oh, and I'm Britney, by the way."

Rachel said, "Thank you, Britney," and scampered off in the direction of Gillian, who was now on the phone.

Rachel soon arrived in front of Gillian's desk but before Rachel could introduce herself, Gillian lifted her golden eyes and gave Rachel a dazzling smile.

"Miss Summers," she said, hanging up the phone. "That was Britney. She told me that you were here. Please have a seat." She indicated some soft wingbacks directly across from her desk. "I'll just check in with Mr. Clayton."

Rachel sat down, though she could see Mr. Clayton walking around his office—it was the largest office on the floor and, like all the other offices, it was encased in glass—yammering into his Bluetooth headset. His desk phone rang and he answered, spoke into it (presumably to Gillian), hung up and then sat down behind his desk, leaning back in his huge, black chair, all the while still speaking on his headset.

Rachel found herself appraising him: he didn't look that much older than she was, though he was markedly more successful, but he carried about himself in a sophisticated way, like he was more mature than most young men his age. His golden-brown hair was parted at the side and slicked back and he had sky-blue, long-lashed eyes that were appraising some manila folders in front of him. He was wearing a crisp, white shirt and navy blue trousers and a matching blue tie with a striped pattern. She couldn't help from comparing his appearance to a prep-school student.

She hadn't expected him to be so handsome. He was tall and broad-shouldered, like the gym was his home away from home, and he had a strong jaw and a long, straight, patrician nose. She wondered how she'd never seen him before. Sure, the Midtown building of the _Daily Globe_ was huge. But she would have noticed a guy as good-looking as him.

Mr. Clayton pressed something on his headset, which Rachel assumed was him ending the call, and then he picked up his desk phone and made a call. Gillian's desk phone rang and she answered it, speaking quite softly into it (unlike down in Rachel's office, everybody seemed to speak in a whisper here).

When Gillian hung up, she said to Rachel, "You can go in. Mr. Clayton will see you now."

Rachel rose and drifted to the door, where Mr. Clayton waved her in. She pulled open the door and entered and he indicated that she should take a seat in one of the sumptuous, white wingbacks in front of his glass desk.

"Summers," said Mr. Clayton, in a velvety smooth voice that was somehow not surprising to Rachel. But it made her name sound way more exotic than it actually was. "Good afternoon. Thank you for coming."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Clayton," she said, crossing her legs. "May I ask why you called me up here?"

He picked up a manila folder with her name stenciled on the front of it and gave it a cursory glance.

"So. Rachel Summers," he began. "Graduated with good SAT scores from…where is this? Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters?" He lifted his blue eyes and locked them with her emerald-green ones.

"It's a boarding school in Westchester," she quickly said.

"I see," said Clayton, frowning back down at the manila folder. "Top of your journalism class at Metro College. Editor-in-Chief of _The Metropolitan_, Metro College's newspaper. You worked here as an intern from your first year at Metro and when you graduated, you accepted a position here as a copy editor, am I right?"

"Absolutely," said Rachel.

"And HR told me that you've applied for one of the positions that opened up for investigative reporting?"

"Well, any kind of reporting, really. Current affairs, crime, anything. I've always wanted to be a reporter, Mr. Clayton. It's been a dream of mine for a long time. And I've always liked the _Daily Globe_. But being a copy editor doesn't really do much for me: I don't get to pursue my passion."

"Well, since you want to report on anything, I think you should start here," he suddenly said.

"Excuse me, Mr. Clayton?" she croaked.

"It'll be a staff position," he continued, closing her file. "You report to me. I know it isn't the same as reporting on real crime in the City—this is the Lifestyle Department, after all—but I'm thinking that your work here will eventually help you to segue into hard news. Your salary will be considerably better too."

Rachel was stunned. The thought had occurred to her that maybe this would happen: that he would be offering her a position in his office. But she'd never actually thought about accepting a position there. Wasn't this department all about fashion and etiquette and gossip? She had never thought about working in this particular department.

But, then again, how could she refuse a salary bump? Reporters, even lifestyle reporters, certainly earned more than she did as a lowly copy editor. Maybe she'd be able to find a proper apartment, better than the cramped, little one she now had in Midtown. Maybe she could look to the Village. Given how these people on this floor dressed, she could only assume that everybody was paid better than she and her cohorts were.

"I can see the gears turning in your head, Summers," interrupted Clayton. "I felt the same gears turn in mine a few years ago when I was offered this position here and not something more serious. This department produces fluff pieces, that's what you're thinking, right?"

Rachel felt her cheeks warm. "Yeah."

"I couldn't agree with you more, Summers," he said. "But I know talent when I see it. I know it. That's why I've slowly but surely been recruiting young journalists, much like yourself, all loyal to me, so that when that higher position does open up, I can take them with me."

"You mean…"

"Think of this as a temporary fix," he said, folding his arms across his muscular chest. "It isn't the be all and end all of your career: just something to pay the bills. I've seen your sample submissions and you're much better than the Lifestyle Department. Which should make writing a fluff piece about a celebrity promoting a movie here in Manhattan pretty easy to do, am I right?"

She nodded.

"So?" he said, arching one perfectly plucked eyebrow. "What do you say?"

"I'll take it," she said, beaming.

He picked up his desk phone and punched in a number with nimble fingers. Two seconds later, someone answered and he said, "Gillian, get a desk prepared for Summers. And tell Purcell to get in here." He hung up and then narrowed his eyes on Rachel again. "Summers, I won't have you writing just yet. I'll let Purcell show you the ropes of the department first. You'll work closely with her on some of her things and then you can go out there on your own."

As soon as he finished his sentence, the door flew open and a tall woman in her mid-thirties strode in. She was wearing a black shirt-dress that fell down to her knees and her light-brown hair was pulled up into a sleek, tight-ponytail and she wore sky-high, strappy, black stilettos. She was very beautiful, with sharp features that would have marked her as a model, not one of the _Daily Globe's_ top lifestyle reporters, and she had her hands in the side pockets of her dress as she plopped down next to Rachel.

"Summers, this is Purcell," introduced Clayton. "She thinks she's a cut above the company because her column is syndicated nationwide. Purcell, this is Summers."

"Carter, you know how much I hate it when you call me by my surname," cooed the willowy beauty seated next to Rachel. She extended a hand to Rachel, who readily took it. "Call me 'Dabney'. And you are?"

"She's your new shadow," he said. "You'll be taking her along with you everywhere this week. She's new to the department and she'll need someone seasoned to show her the ropes."

Dabney gave Rachel the once-over. "A little slice like her won't have much of a problem getting in to all the right places."

"Oh, and Summers," said Clayton. "This job pays well for a reason: you're no longer tethered to nine-to-five. You work when we need you to work. Weekends, late nights, the works. It's five now but you and Dabney are now heading to the Baxter Building."

Rachel could feel her heart almost soar out of her chest and make a blood-stained mess on the whiteness that was Clayton's office.

"What's happening at the Baxter Building?" she managed to ask.

"Something big," he said. "At least for this department. If it was global catastrophe, I wouldn't get the call. I was just on the phone with the Fantastic Four's publicist and he told me to send my best person over STAT."

"I smell an engagement in the air," yelped Dabney, rising from her seat. "That Spencer Storm and Danielle Cage have been heating up New York all summer! Come on, kid! Let's jet!"

Rachel soon realized that things happened very differently for the Dabney Purcells of the world: before she and Dabney could hit the lobby, a sleek, black Lincoln Town Car awaited them just outside the building to whisk them away to the Fantastic Four's 42nd Street and Madison Avenue headquarters.

When they'd arrived in the lobby of the famed Baxter Building, they were told to head up to the reception room on the thirtieth floor but Rachel knew that building almost as well as she knew Xavier's, though she couldn't exactly tell her new mentor that.

The reception area was packed with journalists seated and whispering to one another about the big news. Dabney and Rachel were ushered to the front and they both sat down cross-legged as they waited for the press conference to begin.

"This is so exciting," said Dabney to Rachel, though she was looking at herself through the mirror of her compact.

Rachel nodded, even though her heart was beating at a hundred miles a minute. She didn't know what to expect. Not that she'd been in touch with Franklin or Valeria at all since she'd ended things with him. Since she'd decided that she'd wanted a normal life and dating the leader of the Fantastic Four was the antithesis of normal. She and Franklin were exactly the same age and they'd all but grown up together at Xavier's, since he was a mutant too.

A delegation of press people suddenly ushered the Fantastic Four, all in street clothes, to the small stage that had been built for this press conference.

Franklin was looking as handsome as ever, his golden hair parted in the middle and shaggy and reaching down to his shoulders. She would never have let him grow his hair out that ridiculously long if they had still been dating. His clear, blue eyes glimmered as he looked over at his sister, whispering to her and smiling. He was tall and athletic and he was wearing a lovely, navy blue suit that brought out his eyes even more. His codename was Avatar and he had a slew of mutant abilities.

He was arm and arm with his younger sister, Valeria. She was as beautiful as Rachel remembered her: long cascades of golden hair just like her brother's and the same blue eyes. She wasn't a mutant, though. Valeria was a normal human, except for the fact that she had a genius intellect. Everything she was capable of doing was because she had developed the technology for it and people called her a modern day Tony Stark. Her codename was Miss Fantastic.

Standing next to Valeria, their fingers intertwined, were the two other members of the Fantastic Four: Spencer Storm and Danielle Cage. Spencer was Franklin and Valeria's cousin and he was tall and broad shouldered and handsome, just like Franklin, though he had chestnut colored hair and almond-shaped, brown eyes. Spencer had inherited his father's abilities wholeheartedly and went by the name Firestorm. His girlfriend, Danielle Cage, was beautiful as well, with a full afro and flawless, caramel skin. She was the product of Luke Cage and Jessica Jones and had inherited her mother's powers. She went by the codename Jewel.

Together they formed the Fantastic Four.

Franklin's eyes did a cursory survey of the room and then they settled on Rachel and alarm flashed across his face for a millisecond before he regained his composure. Almost immediately she could feel him pushing to speak to her psionically, trying to open the rapport they had created when they were both much younger.

But she fought him. She couldn't let him into her mind. And it would be too hard to stay out of his. She would immediately want to know about everything that had taken place in the years since they had broken up. She couldn't deal with that. Not when she was finally beginning to integrate into mainstream, civilian life.

After making the necessary introductions and felicitations, the publicist said, "I'd like to let Mr. Richards speak now."

Franklin, beads of sweat now streaming down his face as he glanced at Rachel yet again, pulled out a handkerchief, dabbed at his forehead and approached the mic. He nervously ran his fingers through his shaggy, blonde hair and then smiled for the cameras.

"Hi, everyone," he said, in that deep, familiar voice of his. "I'm Franklin Richards. Some of you know me as Avatar. And I just had an announcement to make today. Something that I've wanted to share for some time. For the past two years I've been seeing someone. And today I asked her to marry me…" He gave Rachel one last glance before he said, "And she said yes."

Stepping out from a door behind Franklin was a tall, beautiful blonde who looked like she had been pulled out of a Victoria's Secret catalog. She had sandy-blonde hair that fell down her back and she was wearing a modest, pink dress that brought out the undertones in her skin. She was grinning from ear to ear, her green eyes scanning the audience of journalists.

Rachel had never really known Shannon Rogers that well, though they'd interacted once or twice. Both of their parents were heroes, after all. Shannon was the daughter of Steve Rogers, also known as Captain America, and his wife, Sharon Carter. She'd grown up at Avenger's Mansion and had taken her father's shield for herself for the past four years under the codename American Dream while her father had retired. And for all intents and purposes, American Dream was the leader of the East Coast Avengers.

Rachel hadn't even known that Shannon and Franklin were dating.

"This is even better than I thought!" crooned Dabney, pulling out a notepad and feverishly scribbling all over it. "What dress is that? It looks like a Badgley Mischka. Do you think that it was custom made?"

"I…wouldn't know," said Rachel, gaping at Shannon, who now locked hands with her fiancée.

"We intend to be married in a few weeks," said Shannon, dazzling everyone with a million dollar smile. "And you're all invited."

"The son of America's First Family," said Dabney, her eyes glazed over with pure adoration, "to be wed to the daughter of America's First Hero! I love it! We have to get all the details! Who's making the dress, where is it, who's invited. Everything!"

Dabney went on and on about wedding details but Rachel couldn't hear her: she could only hear the sound of her heart breaking.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Rachel slammed the front door of her apartment with her telekinesis as she stalked into the living room. She was so embarrassed that she'd had to excuse herself from shadowing Dabney so she could just get away from it all. From the reporters and the chaos and the noise. And especially from Franklin Richards and the waves of guilt that she felt emanating from him. It was making her sick to her stomach.

She tossed herself on the sofa and covered her face, feeling like a teenager all over again. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. She was twenty-five-years-old. And, after all, she had been the one who had chosen to end things with him: not the other way around. She told herself that she had no right to feel this way. But she couldn't help from feeling the way she was feeling.

There was a knock at the door and she groaned. Who in God's name would want to come see her now?

But she got up, took a deep breath and stalked over to the door. But when she pulled it open, she was greeted by the grinning face of her best friend, Rory.

"I brought Haagen Daz," said Rory Munroe, holding up a pint of chocolate ice cream in each hand. "I know it's your favorite."

Rory was looking as effervescently beautiful as ever and Rachel couldn't help from reaching out and pulling her best friend in for a big hug. She ran her fingers through Rory's long, white hair. She and Rory had been best friends since they were girls: in fact, Rory's mom, Queen Ororo of Wakanda, was Rachel's godmother. Rachel's mom, Jean Grey, had been Rory's godmother too but Jean had died years ago.

"You have to let me breathe," groaned Rory, finally pulling herself away from Rachel. "Go get us some spoons."

"Welcome to my humble abode," said Rachel, pulling Rory in and closing the door.

Rory was now standing in the small living room of the one bedroom apartment, her hands on her hips, her ocean-blue eyes looking around the room. She was wearing a sparkly black number with a jewel neckline and the dress was way too short. But, then again, since Rory had come into her curves when they were teens, she'd always been one to show it off. She'd coupled the dress up with some knee-high, black boots and a white leather motorcycle jacket.

"This place is a dump," she finally commented.

Rachel chuckled as she walked over to the sparsely furnished kitchen and procured two spoons from a drawer. She couldn't agree more: this apartment was a far cry from her life in Westchester. It was small and she could probably walk around the whole place in thirty seconds. She'd splurged at Ikea to get furniture over time. And it was messy. Her clothes and shoes were all over the place. She'd grown accustomed to the cleaning staff at Xavier's so she'd never actually practiced cleaning up after herself.

She returned to the living room and they both sat down on the comfy sofa, immediately digging in to their pints of ice cream.

"I'm so glad you're here," said Rachel, in between bites of Belgian Chocolate. "What are you even doing in New York?"

Rory put her ice cream down on a nearby coffee table and narrowed her eyes on Rachel.

"Well, by now you must know about Franklin and Shannon," said Rory sheepishly.

"I do," said Rachel, not needing to be a telepath to figure out where this line of conversation was going. "And?"

"And…Okay, don't hate me, Ray," moaned Rory, taking Rachel's hand into hers. "Frankie asked me to be his best man or best woman or whatever. I initially said no but he was relentless, Ray."

"Of course he was," said Rachel, rolling her eyes. "This is Franklin we're talking about."

Rory (daughter of superheroes Storm and Black Panther), Franklin and some of the other progeny of superheroes (including the likes of Shannon Rogers) had all stayed at Whisper Hill, under the watchful eye of sorceress Agatha Harkness, when they were growing up. Harkness ran a boarding school of sorts for superheroes' children. Their parents, swashbuckling heroes, left their children in the care of Harkness and Rory and Franklin became the closest of friends over the years, up until Franklin's vast mutant abilities appeared during puberty and his parents, Reed and Susan Richards of the Fantastic Four, thought it best that he now attend Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters.

A thirteen-year-old Rory had made it explicitly clear to her thirteen-year-old godsister, Rachel, that it was now her responsibility to look after Franklin. Rachel had met Franklin once or twice but she'd never really gotten to know him till he'd come to Xavier's and they'd all but fallen for one another.

She didn't doubt that Franklin had been persuasive in getting Rory to be his best woman. And she knew that he wasn't trying to get at her either. He and Rory had been best friends since they were kids, after all. And Rachel, in her teenage insecurity, had more than once telepathically probed to see if there was any romantic inclinations between the two, only to feel guilty when she realized that there wasn't: it was one hundred percent platonic, more like siblings.

"Are you mad?" murmured Rory, frowning.

"Just answer this for me," said Rachel, giving her best friend a sideways glance. "Did you know that they were dating?"

Rory looked around the room for a few seconds before she said, "Yes, I did. But I didn't know if I should tell you or not. I didn't know…"

"If I could handle it," said Rachel, taking Rory's hand in her own. "I know. I guess I don't have much of a choice now, do I? I was totally blindsided, Rory!"

"I know," said Rory. "I just...I know that you want to move on with your life. To be normal. And there's nothing normal about Frankie."

"You got that right," said Rachel. "But enough about me; how have you been? How has Latveria been treating you?"

Rory was the Wakandan Ambassador to Latveria, a country that had strong trade ties to Wakanda. The ruler, Victor von Doom, had insisted that all the previous Wakandan ambassadors had angered him and he would appreciate the proper respect due to a sovereign if Wakanda wanted Wakandan-Latverian trading to continue peacefully. Rory's father had decided to make her a fixture in Latveria, representing Wakanda, if only to appease Von Doom.

Initially, Rachel had hoped that Rory, who had studied International Relations at Metro while Rachel had been studying journalism, would end up as the Wakandan Ambassador to the United States. But T'Challa obviously had other ideas for Rory. She'd missed her best friend dearly and this was the first time that she'd been able to see her since she'd left for Latveria three years ago.

They used to Skype all the time but with Rachel having to work at the Globe and Rory's responsibilities as an ambassador, the Skype dates became fewer and farther between and were now hurried emails. Not that Rachel worried much about their friendship lasting.

Much.

"It's actually a lot better than I expected," said Rory, smiling. "I've learnt…a lot of things."

There was a sudden knock on the door and they both jumped.

"Who could that be?" asked Rory absentmindedly.

Rachel used her telepathy to see who it was and was unpleasantly surprised.

She put her ice cream down, took a deep breath and pulled open the old, wooden door: it was Shannon Rogers.

She wasn't looking as effortlessly beautiful as she had been earlier that day for the press conference: she was in what was once a beautiful, red cocktail dress and her sandy-blonde hair was pulled up into a bun that had come undone. Her face was bruised and scratched in places, a shoulder looked dislocated and she was only wearing one side of what looked like some very stylish, black Jimmy Choos.

Rachel pulled one of Shannon's arms over her neck to prop up the near-collapsing young woman.

"Shannon?" yelled Rory, running to the door and putting Shannon's other arm around her neck.

Rachel and Rory led Shannon to the sofa that they had just been sharing while Rachel used her telekinesis to close the door behind them. She didn't need all of her neighbors to know that she knew American Dream, whose identity was common knowledge. Rachel had heard that Shannon's birth had been like that of a royal baby. Shannon wasn't just Captain America's baby: she was _America's _baby.

"Let me fix you up," said Rory, sitting down on the bare floors in the lotus position and levitating a few seconds later, her eyes closed. She suddenly began to glow a glaring white and raw energy emanated from her, directly into Shannon, whose wounds immediately began to heal.

Rory was a superior mage of some repute and she had been taken up by Agatha Harkness as her prized pupil until Rory had gone to New York to attend college. While she toiled away at Metro by day, by night she had been under the tutelage of Dr. Strange, Sorcerer Supreme, who had been just as impressed by Rory's raw talent.

Though Rory had not been born a mutant, she had been born with the essential spark of magic. It apparently ran through her mother's bloodline and it had culminated in the birth of Rory, who was immensely powerful. But, like Rachel, she had always wanted a fairly normal life. She left the superheroics to her older brother, White Panther, who served on the X-Men.

Once Rachel determined that Shannon was quite well, she said, "Now that this is all settled, I'd just like to mention that blood is a bitch to get out of fabric so I hope you have a spell for that, Rory."

Rory gave her a withering look before she returned her attentions to Shannon. "What are you doing here, Shannon?"

"Good question," added Rachel. "How the hell do you know where I live?"

Shannon pointed at the black watch on her left hand. "It's a mini-computer."

"So you're saying my address is online?" said Rachel. "I knew I should have been vaguer on Facebook. Damn you, Zuckerburg."

Shannon shook her head. "No. It's the Avengers' business to know who's who in New York. In America, really. We've always known that you live here and we need your help, Rachel. I need your help."

"_My_ help?" asked Rachel, one eyebrow arched. "What can I do?"

"You're the most powerful telepath in New York City," said Shannon.

"Okay, before we get into that," said Rory, waving her hands in the air. "What happened to you? Why were you so beaten up?"

"Franklin and I were out to dinner, just a few blocks from here," began Shannon, "when we were attacked by these weird monster things. They looked like they were formed from the street."

"As in…?" asked Rachel, folding her arms across her chest.

"As in, we were seated outside the little restaurant, paparazzi hovering of course, and these creatures just rose from the street and then Frankie and I were trying to fight them off," said Shannon. "And then this woman appeared, she was pretty scantily clad too, and then she shot me with some kind of beam from her hands that knocked me out. And when I came to…Frankie was gone."

"Did you try contacting him through your psychic rapport?" asked Rory, though she gave Rachel a quick look before returning her eyes to Shannon.

"I tried," said Shannon. "A lot of the times, we don't even have to speak. We just think to each other."

"We're both familiar with the idea of telepathic rapports, Shannon," snapped Rachel.

Shannon shot Rachel a dirty look, her mouth poised to say something truly rude, before she recoiled and simply said, "He hasn't responded. I'm getting a whole lot of nothing. I asked Wiccan to look but he says that Frankie seems to be shrouded by powerful mystical energies."

"Well, if Wiccan can't find him," said Rachel, "Rory should be able to. Anything he could do, she could do better."

Rory couldn't help from cracking a smile at that jab. She and Wiccan, real name Billy Maximoff, had a rivalry of sorts. Like her, Billy had been a practitioner of magic and they had both trained under Agatha Harkness, though Rory had been the favored student. He had left Whisper Hill two years before Rory had and had become a student of Strange's as well, hoping that training under the Sorcerer Supreme would finally give him the edge over Rory. But when she had joined them, he hadn't taken too kindly to it.

They had a serious rivalry since it had been determined that either of them had the potential to be the next Sorcerer Supreme, destined to take the mantle from Dr. Strange, though each of them had gone on to do different things. He was now an Avenger. Not to mention that there were many magical adepts all over the world.

"I can certainly try," said Rory, still levitating as she closed her eyes again. This time a soft, yellow light enshrouded her as she focused her magical energies.

The yellow light blazed for a few seconds and then it faded.

"Did you find him?" asked Rachel, sitting down on the floor as she looked up at her still-floating best friend.

Rory opened her eyes, sweat dripping down her face, and shifted her eyes before she said, "I didn't. There's someone very strong protecting him. Shrouding him. It's very strange. A very powerful sorceress may have him."

"Which is why I came to you, Rachel," said Shannon. "I was hoping that where mysticism failed, your telepathy might push through."

Rachel bit the inside of her mouth. She wasn't entirely convinced that she wanted to get involved in any of it. She had been going so well, trying to be normal. But this was Frankie she was talking about. This wasn't about taking cats out of trees and saving random people from burning fires. This was Frankie.

Her first love.

"I guess I can help," said Rachel.

"Thank you, Rachel," said Shannon. "Frankie always said that you were dependable."

It took every ounce of her being not to scowl at the young woman seated on her couch as she closed her eyes and placed the tips of her fingers on her temples.

She knew that she was a very powerful telepath. Her stepmother, Emma, had told her that she was wasting her gifts by not using them. That she could do a great deal for the world, save so many lives. Emma had always said that she had to use Cerebro, the psychic amplifying device created by Charles Xavier, to achieve the scope that Rachel could naturally.

Standing in the middle of her living room, Rachel could telepathically find anyone in any part of the world just with the power of her mind. But, for now, she needed to narrow the scope to finding Franklin and Franklin alone. Which was easier than it normally would be since they had a psychic rapport, though she'd closed it. She opened it now.

Just as she felt his mind, a powerful telepathic presence attacked her, making her lose her concentration.

_STAY AWAY_, it hissed. _HE'S MINE!_

Rachel hastily opened her eyes as she gasped in horror.

"Did you find him?" asked Shannon, standing up and gripping Rachel by the shoulders. "Were you able to get a hold of him?"

"I think I encountered that presence you and Wiccan detected, Rory," said Rachel, using her telekinesis to pry Shannon's hands off of her. "You were hurting me."

"Sorry," said Shannon, sitting back down. "I normally have more control of my strength but I'm just worried."

"But I think that with the both of us we might be able to find him," said Rachel, turning to Rory and placing her hands on her hips, ignoring Shannon.

Rory now stood up and took Rachel's hands into her own. "I think you're right. But this person is some kind of powerful. To spook _you_?"

"I wasn't spooked," defended Rachel.

"You didn't see your own face," said Rory, smiling. "Let's try it."

They both closed their eyes, tapping into their respective reservoirs of power: one a powerful mutant, the other a powerful mage. They were now traveling together, hand in hand, in what was called the Astral Plane. It looked a lot like deep space with endless stars and vast darkness. But they were honing in on the energy that belonged to Franklin.

They could see the shadowy figure that enshrouded their friend, though they couldn't make out who the figure was. It had the shape of a woman and it had Franklin in its hand, squeezing him tight. He was screaming but there was no sound coming out of his mouth.

Rachel and Rory, hands still clasped, used their individual free hands to fire energy beams at the hand that gripped Franklin.

The shadow screamed as it let go, the entire astral plane rumbling as the figure shrieked, and for a second Rachel was able to connect minds with Franklin.

_Help me!_ he said.

Instinctively, Rachel reached out to him, letting go of Rory for one second, but her best friend pulled her back.

_I have the location_, said Rory. _Look_.

The shadow gripped Franklin once again and they both disappeared into the nothingness of the Astral Plane.

Rachel opened her eyes as she returned to her body and she screamed in pure frustration as she let go of Rory.

"Did you find him?" asked Shannon, her green eyes wide with worry over her fiancée.

"We did," said Rachel and Rory in unison.

"He's in Brazil," said Rory. "I didn't get an exact location. But I know he's somewhere in the Amazon."

"That's good enough for me," said Shannon, getting up. "Thank you. I'll go find him."

"By yourself?" asked Rory.

"He's my fiancée," said Shannon. "I should be able to do this. He'd do it for me."

"You can't beat this woman alone," said Rachel, locking eyes with Shannon. "I'll help you."

"We both will," offered Rory, putting a hand on Shannon's shoulder.

Shannon pulled Rory in for a big hug. "Thank you. You're a true friend." Over Rory's shoulder, she looked over at Rachel. "You both are. True _friends._"

Rachel, who picked up on the jab, rolled her eyes.

As she pulled away from Rory, Shannon said, "Let's go to Avengers Mansion. We can take one of the Quinjets. I think I'm going to need my uniform for this."


End file.
